


Proper Policing

by cordeliadelayne



Series: The Nightingale's First Apprentice [2]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Nightingale, Case Fic, Drama, Established Relationship, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Sex, abigail is an apprentice, peter is in the CPU, pretty g rated overall, rating for one brief sex scene, secrets and lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 11:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9547223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordeliadelayne/pseuds/cordeliadelayne
Summary: If the Grant family were ever to adopt a motto, “be careful what you wish for” ought to be first in line.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the same universe as [First Date](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9379778). Set in an AU where Abigail is an apprentice and Peter isn't.

If the Grant family were ever to adopt a motto, “be careful what you wish for” ought to be first in line. At least that was the first thing I thought of as I finished an ignominious shift at the CPU only to be told that I had a VIP waiting downstairs for me. 

I knew who she was before she introduced herself, I could _feel_ the power, itching its way over my skin. Somewhere behind me the desk sergeant fell to his knees but I managed to stay upright, just. 

Lady Ty smiled as she stood up, the kind of smile that has brought down empires. “So, you're the one keeping the wizard's bed warm?” she asked. 

Thomas had told me that if I were ever to meet one of the Rivers without him around I was to be respectful, never take any food or drink they offered me, and most importantly never forget who I was. 

“I have no complaints,” I told her, bearing all of his advice in mind.

Her eyes narrowed a little and I wondered if I was putting one of those vague agreements Thomas is always going on about but never explaining, in jeopardy. 

“You're related to the apprentice? How does she feel about you lying down with her Master?”

I snorted. “If you think Abigail would ever call anyone master you've clearly never met her.” (I knew they had yet to be formally introduced, though she had met Mama Thames, something up till now I'd actually been quite jealous about). “And if you think that Thomas would ever make her call him master, you don't know him at all.”

Lady Ty's smile became flintier and I prepared myself for an onslaught of magic. Instead she seemed to rein herself her in and held out her hand for me to shake, which I did. 

“You're not what I expected,” she said. 

“Not my problem,” I replied, which was definitely heading the wrong way over the respectful line. 

But she chuckled then, and then looked surprised that I'd managed to get that much out of her. “I can see I'm going to have to keep an eye on you, Peter Grant. Give the Nightingale my compliments, when you see him.”

I waited until she'd swept out of the door before I sank into a chair and tried to remember how to breathe. 

* * * * * 

Watching Thomas teach Abigail magic had become my favourite thing in the world, outside of the bedroom, naturally. He was always so careful with her, seeming to know at what point she would grasp the _formae_ and when to leave her alone to practice by herself, and he was always so focused. And sometimes, when Abigail did something amazing she'd manage to tease a smile or a laugh out of him that was just pure joy, like he was slowly falling back in love with magic all over again. 

And then there were the days when he did something that reminded us all how powerful he was, and I went a little bit weak at the knees. 

That was how I found them, down in the firing range I'd helped him and Frank Caffrey clear out (Abigail having been safely out of the way at school), shooting holes in Nazis with a flick of his wrist and a ball of flame as if it was the easiest thing in the world. 

“This is a health and safety nightmare if ever I saw one,” I joked as I took a couple of steps into the room. Molly had been watching them when I arrived, smiling that almost terrifying smile of hers, and she'd greeted me with an equally terrifying smile before heading off upstairs, presumably to make a start on dinner. 

Thomas smiled at me, a soft teasing smile all his own. “She has goggles on,” he pointed out, which was true when I looked at Abigail's grinning face, “and she is staying in the designated safety area, and she has flameproof clothing on and she will only be using this room to practice her _aqua_ and nothing else.”

I tried, and probably failed miserably, not to show how happy I was that he'd taken all of my suggestions on board. He had an understandably old fashioned view of Health and Safety regulations but it hadn't taken too much persuasion for him to agree to get the Folly up to spec. I dreaded to think what Abigail might get up to if left completely to her own devices, and I'm sure Thomas felt the same way as well. 

“Of course there is no kissing in the firing range,” Thomas added, very seriously, as he walked towards me. “So I'll just have to settle for telling you that it's very good to see you.”

“Ugh,” Abigail said, taking off her goggles and pulling a face half-disgusted and half, well no, mostly just disgusted. “You two are disturbingly cute.”

Thomas turned towards her, smiling. “Disturbingly?”

“You're my teacher. I shouldn't have to be confronted with this level of cuteness when I'm trying to learn. It's against the laws of physics, or something.”

“Perhaps you'd rather get back to some real science then? I understand you have a chemistry project to write up?”

Abigail sighed and blew some of her hair out of her face. She'd been needing a haircut for a while now but I wasn't sure how to bring it up.

“Yeah, okay,” she muttered, though I wasn't fooled, I knew she loved the fact that Thomas paid attention to her academic as well as her magical studies. Like me she'd had to bring herself up more than she should have had to and so being at the Folly where she was more often than not the sole focus of both Thomas and Molly's attention was a nice change for her, and one I felt was only helping her to blossom. Though I certainly was never going to tell her that. 

“You're staying for dinner?” she asked me, interrupting my thoughts. 

“If that's all right?” I asked. 

I almost always check in with Abigail if I turn up at the Folly unannounced, I never want to make her feel like I'm taking time away from her and Thomas outside of the classroom. It's important that they don't spend all their time together just working on magic; I think they'd both go stir crazy if that was the case.

“Course,” she replied with an easy shrug, which meant she wanted to talk to me about something that was worrying her but didn't want to talk to Thomas about it; I knew the signs by now. “See you later.”

I turned back to Thomas to see to my surprise that he was frowning after Abigail, a soft slump to his shoulders. “I wish I knew how to get her to confide in me,” he said.

“I'm sure it's nothing,” I said. Which apparently had been the wrong thing to say all together. 

“I'm her....teacher, she should feel she can tell me anything.”

“She's a teenage girl,” I pointed out. “With the best will in the world, she's never going to tell you everything. And I'm sure there are things that you wouldn't want her to.” 

For one thing I'm sure we were both very glad that her school took sex education very seriously and that Abigail didn't seem particularly interested in boys or girls in a romantic sense just yet. 

“Perhaps not,” Thomas admitted. “But she doesn't have any problem telling you.”

“What's this really about?” I asked, because Thomas rarely gets maudlin around me or Abigail these days, not since our picnic to Casterbrook. I took a step forward and put my hand on his arm. 

“It's -” He paused. I was sure he was about to tell me that it was nothing, and I was about to tell him that clearly it wasn't nothing, and then we were going to have our first fight. But instead he took a breath and said, “it's probably best if we talk upstairs.”

I wasn't sure whether that was better or worse than an argument. 

* * * * * 

We settled in the drawing room, Molly popping in and providing tea and biscuits before disappearing again. She shot me an inscrutable look that I had no idea what to make of. Sometimes reading Molly's expressions is as easy as if she just told me what she was thinking, and at other times I wished she came with a user's manual.

“I had a rather unsatisfactory meeting with Lady Ty earlier,” Thomas began. “About my unsuitability to be responsible for a young girl's welfare.” 

“This isn't the first time she's objected,” I pointed out. In fact I'd heard him rant about Lady Ty quite a lot over the time I'd known him, which is why I'd been so sure who she was when she'd turned up earlier. 

Thomas shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “No, it isn't,” he said, slowly and not quite looking me in the eye. 

“She said something about me, didn't she?” I guessed. Thomas looked like he was going to come up with a way of softening whatever it was she had said, but I suddenly wasn't in the mood for platitudes. “She came to see me today too.”

“She did what?” 

Funny, how quickly someone can switch from being mildly annoyed to fucking furious. 

“She obviously just wanted to to see what she was up against,” I said, realising as I said it that I'd framed it as some sort of us versus them, which actually wasn't what I thought Thomas needed, very much the opposite in fact. 

“There are agreements,” Thomas said, snippily, “she has no right to interfere in my private life.”

“Maybe you should actually get some of these agreements down in writing then?” I suggested, not for the first time. “That would at least be a start.”

“I have already told you,” Thomas began and then stopped at the raising of my eyebrow. I didn't appreciate the lecturing – he didn't do it to Abigail, I didn't see any reason why he should start with me. 

Thomas visibly got his temper in check, looking very annoyed at himself. “I'm sorry, Peter, I'm not mad at you.”

“I know that,” I said, smiling softly. I moved over to his chair and sat on the arm, pleased when he pulled me closer towards him. It wasn't very comfortable but I liked being this close to him, being able to bury my face in his neck and press kisses along his jaw. 

“If you keep doing that...”

“Yeah, yeah,” I replied, getting up and moving back to my seat before Abigail, or god forbid, Molly, decided to interrupt. 

“I've never been very good at handling the Rivers,” Thomas said, after a moment. He poured us both another cup of tea and I wrapped my fingers around mine, suddenly feeling tired and cold. “I've followed too closely the path of my predecessors, I realise that. I've always been respectful, of course, but sometimes I think they want more from me than I'm prepared to give. I thought Abigail's apprenticeship was going to be vetoed all together at one point.”

“You never told me that.”

Thomas shrugged. “I didn't know you very well, then. And if it hadn't received approval from all interested parties, I'm not sure what I would have done.”

I took a sip of my tea and looked at him. I didn't say anything, just looked. 

“All right, I may have had a plan,” he said. “But that is beside the point.”

I smiled at him. “I'm sure it was a very cunning plan.”

Thomas looked a little confused, like he knew I was making a reference to something but didn't know what it was. It's a look I've got quite used to seeing. 

Molly appeared in the doorway then, Abigail trailing after her, head stuck in a book. Molly looked at us and waited for us to stand up to get ready for dinner, then she took the book out of Abigail's hands while she was still reading it and walked off to the kitchen. 

Abigail looked after her mournfully for a minute, then at us. “So, what's for dinner?”

* * * * * 

London being London and a policeman's salary being a policeman's salary there was no way I could afford to move out of the section house just yet, and staying with my parents was completely out of the question. Which was why staying over at the Folly made such a nice change. I'd done it before, of course, when Abigail first started her apprenticeship and I'd agreed to act as her chaperone, though she hadn't been living at the Folly then. Since the beginning though both Thomas and Molly had made it clear that I had a room of my own for as long as I wanted it, no strings attached and sometimes I had taken them up on their offer, wallowing in a larger bed than I was used to and not having to worry about when I'd be able to get into the communal kitchen and do some cooking and inevitably ordering a take away instead. 

Staying over in Thomas' room was still very new but the previous arrangements did mean that I always kept a few sets of clothes and other bits and pieces on hand at the Folly, mostly these days so I could change for bed without worrying about doing a walk of shame to work the next day. 

Thomas was in his en suite bathroom when I got there, and I was just about to make myself comfortable in his, our, bed, when Abigail knocked on the half-open door and peered around it.

“Is he...?”

“Just finishing up I think,” I said. “Did you want him?” She shook her head. “Me?” She nodded and then left. 

I considered interrupting Thomas, then decided against it; best wait until I knew exactly what the problem was. Instead I followed Abigail back to her room. 

There were more books stacked up on the floor than the last time I'd been there, but otherwise it looked pretty much the same. There was a photo collage on one wall of her school friends and another of women like Michelle Obama, Malala Yousafzai, Marie Curie and Sophia Duleep Singh. Under that was her school schedule and besides that another one that Thomas had written for her, detailing where he expected her to be in her studies and when. (She'd insisted on that one, Thomas preferring to see where her natural skills lay and not wanting to overwhelm her too soon; I'd told him that she thrived on a challenge and he'd modified his plans accordingly).

On the bookshelf, where even more books were piled, was an orange flower I didn't know the name of (the natural world not really being my thing) which seemed to be thriving thanks to the small watering can next to it and a little bottle of plant food. I'd thought at first that Abigail was taking an interest in botany only because of Thomas' frankly baffling delight in the countryside – our picnic to Casterbrook had been the second time he'd forced me to go for a drive in the country and I was hoping it would be the last. 

Well, all right, force might be a bit harsh, and Thomas opening up and telling me more about his family as we drove was a nice diversion from paperwork, as was getting to know just how uncomfortable kissing in the Jag could be. 

Anyway, it turned out that Abigail actually quite liked flowers and plants and enjoyed looking after them. She did however view green open spaces which contained cows and no phone signal with as much, if not more, suspicion as I did. 

By the time I'd fully taken in her room, noting absently that no clothes on the floor meant that Molly had been in recently, I got my mind firmly back to the problem at hand. Abigail had sat down cross-legged on her bed and so I took the chair next to her desk, kicking over a few books with my feet as I did so. Abigail didn't seem to notice. 

“If I tell you something, do you have to tell Nightingale?” she asked. 

“That depends,” I replied. “I can't promise that I won't.”

Abigail nodded and pulled distractedly at the hem of her t-shirt, a strange looking grey cat winking at me every time she moved. “I had a visitor at school today,” she said eventually. I had a sinking feeling I knew where this was heading. “She said some things.”

“I'm sure Lady Ty means well,” I started, pretty sure that I was telling the truth. She had an obvious interest in the Folly and my relationship with Thomas which was annoying to say the least, but I could see how an outsider might be suspicious of Thomas' motives. It wasn't as if we all hadn't had the same thought when he came to talk to Abigail's dad about taking her on as an apprentice.

Abigail looked up at me and looked so confused that I lost whatever conversational thread I'd been about to pick at. 

“Cecelia? I'm not talking about her.” 

There was a stunned silence while we both grappled with the fact that she was on apparent first name basis with a woman I didn't think she'd ever met before. 

“This is one of those things you're going to tell Nightingale, isn't it?” she asked. She didn't look particularly guilty, just resigned to her fate. 

“You swore an oath,” I said, which I knew even as I said it would be taking the conversation in a direction that would be deeply unhelpful. Some days I just can't stop myself. 

“I haven't broken my oath! I would _never_. She just wanted to check up on me, as a mother. She was worried Nightingale would be, weird. I told her he was being...I told her he was old and didn't get it but he was trying and that's all we could ask of him. And if I had any problems I knew that she wasn't the one to go to. She laughed and said Nightingale was a good judge of character and that was that.” She took a deep breath, having apparently forgotten the need to do so for the last two minutes. “She just checks in with me sometimes. She doesn't ever ask me about the Folly and I don't tell her anything. It's just...” She stopped and sighed and suddenly looked exactly her age. “I love Molly but I can't talk to her about things like I can with Cecelia. Women's things,” she added, as if I needed the clarification. “And she teaches me about the Rivers.” 

I couldn't think of a single way of saying what I needed to that wouldn't sound like admonishment, so I just went for it anyway. “That is absolutely something you should have told Thomas about.”

For a second I thought she was going to argue with me, but in the end she just deflated like an exhausted balloon. “I know.”

“He won't be mad,” I told her, mostly sure that was true. 

“I know. That's what's going to be so horrible about it.”

I smiled softly at her and after a seconds hesitation she returned it. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I shouldn't have...”

“It's all right,” Abigail said. “It's been bothering me for ages but I didn't know whether telling him would make it worse or not. He gets very funny about the Rivers.”

I hummed my agreement. I wasn't sure exactly what the problem was there, apart from the obvious, and I hadn't quite worked out how to ask. 

“Hang on,” I started to say, “if it wasn't Lady Ty who came to see you, who was it?”

“Oh, Lesley May,” Abigail said. Her mouth twisted as she said the name, like she was biting into a lemon; she and Lesley have never really got on. Or rather, Lesley has never had much time for Abigail. 

“Lesley?” I repeated, confused. I hadn't seen her in a couple of weeks, just a brief chat in the canteen as our shifts had crossed paths. She was still Seawoll's golden girl in the murder squad and hadn't got time for the likes of me. 

“Yeah. She was just asking questions about how my studies were going and stuff. And then.” She stopped and didn't look like she was going to start talking again without some prodding. 

“Was it about me?” I asked, trying to remember to keep my temper in check. I was seriously starting to get pissed off at everybody thinking my relationship with Thomas was anybody's business but ours.

She shook her head. “I think Nightingale's under investigation,” she said, so quietly that I had to lean forward to hear her and when I did my brain didn't quite understand what she was saying. 

“Under investigation for what?” 

“I don't know. I might be wrong, I might just have got it wrong....”

“ _Abigail_ , I believe you.”

“I'm really worried,” she said and I nodded, so was I. 

* * * * * 

There wasn't any question of us telling Thomas after that and so at eleven o'clock that night me, Thomas and Abigail were sitting in the kitchen drinking hot chocolate and planning our next move.

“You say that Lady Ty has been a friend to you? Do you think her motives are genuine?” Thomas asked Abigail. 

Abigail took a few sips of her drink and really thought about it; it was a big ask for anyone, let alone someone her age. “I do,” she said finally, with the conviction of youth. 

“Then tomorrow I will go and speak to her. She and the Commissioner are close. She may have heard something.”

“You want to play your hand this soon?” I asked. 

Thomas moved towards me and nudged our shoulders together. “If I've learnt anything over the last few years it's that the Folly needs allies to survive. I can't do this alone any more. If Lady Ty is sincere in her wish to educate Abigail about genii locorum and aid in the modernisation of the Folly, I suppose the least I can do is meet her half way. If we've misjudged each other, better to sort that out now, than further down the line. I'm not sure why Lesley May has involved herself in our affairs however. You know her much better than I do, do you have any idea?”

“I really don't,” I replied. “She's murder squad, not Professional Standards. There's always a chance she's doing this on her own,” I added. “She's not exactly keen on the idea of a magical underworld.”

“The demi-monde is not a criminal underworld,” Thomas muttered, more to himself than to us. This was a conversation I'd seen brewing several times between Lesley and Thomas but it had never really got anywhere. More I think because Thomas could see that his view of the world was as different to Lesley's as mine was. 

I shrugged. I'm not sure I'm the best person to understand Lesley's motives these days. I thought once that we might have, could have, had a thing but it faded, right around the time I first met Thomas, not coincidentally. 

You should never underestimate the importance of sharing your life with someone who views the world like you do.

“She doesn't like you very much,” Abigail told Thomas, around a yawn that set us all off. 

“Hmm,” Thomas agreed. He put his hand on my shoulder and stood up. “I think it's time we all went to bed.”

I put the dirty mugs into the sink under Molly's watchful eye – she hadn't joined us but we'd all been aware of her presence nearby – and then followed Thomas and Abigail to the bottom of the stairs, where Abigail had stopped. 

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you,” she said. 

Thomas put a hand on her shoulder and moved around her so she was looking at him. “What did I tell you when I asked you to be my apprentice?”

Abigail relaxed her shoulders. “That you were bound to make loads of mistakes and it would be great if I put up with you anyway.”

Thomas grinned. “Well, the gist is there, certainly.”

Abigail smiled back at him and he let go of her shoulder, both of them straightening up a little. 

“I'm sorry I made you feel you couldn't come to me. However awkward you think it will be, I would much rather that than have you – I would much rather you came to me.” 

I wondered what it was that he was going to say and filed it away as another one of those things I needed to ask him when we were alone. There were starting to be quite a lot of them, which I wasn't sure was particularly healthy for a relationship, if I could call what we were doing that even when I was pretty sure that's what we were doing and I knew Thomas would be horrified to think that I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Turns out I had my own awkward conversations I was trying not to have.

“Night Peter,” Abigail said. “Try not to think too much.”

She and Thomas shared a conspiratorial grin that I pretended annoyed me when in fact I was feeling far too many things at once and then she dashed up the stairs, two at a time. 

“Come on,” Thomas said, “bed.” He reached out a hand and put it at the small of my back as we walked up to his room. 

When we were inside with the door closed he pushed me up against it and kissed me, softly, like we had all the time in the world. I languidly put my arms around his neck and held him there as we explored each other's mouths. Then I let him guide me towards his bed and we lay down, our foreheads touching on a shared pillow, his arm around my waist, my leg in between his. We kissed a little more, just a soft press of lips before my eyes felt heavy and we moved a little closer, hearts beating in sync as sleep finally claimed us both. 

* * * * * 

I'm pretty certain Thomas was a ninja in a previous life, the way he manages to move without making a sound. It's particularly impressive when he manages to remove himself from the bed without making me feel cold at the loss of his body heat. 

I didn't need to be in work again until lunchtime and he'd reset the alarm on the bedside table for me for 10, letting me sleep in much longer than I normally would. But I must have looked like I'd needed it when he'd woken and stared down at my sleeping face, maybe touching at my hair which was overdue for a cut and which I had to do this week before I went to visit my parents at the weekend, and maybe pressing a kiss to my forehead. I thought that I felt that, but maybe that's just what dream!Thomas did. Real Thomas can be surprisingly tactile, sometimes, and then surprisingly not, but he likes to touch in the bedroom and I like to let him. 

With what I knew was a stupidly happy grin on my face I got up and avoided looking at said face in the mirror, instead taking advantage of the ridiculously large bath in Thomas' en suite before getting dressed and then noticing that Thomas had left me a note on the desk in his particular chicken scratched scrawl which said he was going to take Abigail out for dinner tonight and gave the name of the restaurant if I wanted to join them. 

I smiled at the offer, but this was one of those things they needed to do on their own. Instead I headed downstairs to see if Molly had left me anything to eat. 

Of course she had. 

* * * * *

I wasn't sure how I was going to tackle the Lesley issue. I wasn't even sure that I was going to tackle it, that it was even my place. None of my relationships have exactly lasted the long haul, I've always let myself get too distracted, at least according to my mother and I've always wanted to _know_ and sometimes the people I've been sleeping with hadn't wanted me to. I wasn't sure yet where on that spectrum Thomas lay. After all, there were words that haunted him, like Ettersberg, and I doubted I'd ever get under his skin like that did. So should I be doing this, placing myself on the side of the Folly? What if Lesley May was right to be suspicious? She was after all the best copper I knew. What if Lady Ty were right? What if Thomas taking on Abigail had been a mistake?

After those depressing thoughts had thoroughly rid me of my previous good mood I headed down to the canteen, something I tend to do near the middle of my shift, just so that I can ensure that I get to stretch my legs every so often, only to come face to face with Sahra Guleed, one of Belgravia's murder team. Our paths hadn't crossed much but I knew she was one of Seawoll's chosen few and she'd been called out to a few cases that had involved Thomas (I'd only gleaned what had happened from some of my more gossip inclined colleagues, Thomas not being the garrulous type when it came to police work that required a wizard on site, especially when Abigail was around). 

“It's Sahra, isn't it?” I asked, joining her in the line for what the Met laughingly calls food. 

She nodded, concentrating as it turned out on finding something suitable for her to eat. Eventually she settled on an egg sandwich and a cup of tea that I knew from experience would taste terrible. I just took a cup of coffee that I knew would taste burnt, Molly having provided me with a big enough brunch that I probably wouldn't need to eat again for a couple of days. 

“Can I join you?” I asked, to which she was rightly immediately suspicious. 

“Why?”

“I just want to ask you something.”

“Is this about the Purley case?” she asked. 

I frowned. “No, what's the -”

“Okay then,” she interrupted and sat down in the nearest seat. I sat across from her, still trying to think of a way to ask her about what she didn't want me to ask her about. 

“I've not got long,” she said, digging into her sandwiches and taking a big bite as if to make the point. I thought if she really had to be somewhere fast she'd have taken her sandwiches and gone but I refrained from saying as much. 

“It's - “ Then I stopped, my mind completely blank. I didn't really know Sahra, and I didn't know how well she knew Lesley and I didn't know what she knew about Thomas other than that he was a wizard.

“Is there something wrong at the Falcon Unit?” she asked me, suddenly a lot more interested in this conversation. 

“What makes you think that?” 

She just looked at me, unimpressed. I could see she'd be good at getting confessions out of people. 

“People have been asking around,” Sahra said after she'd looked at me and found whatever it was she wanted. “About Inspector Nightingale.”

I knew this had to be the case, but somehow knowing it and hearing it were two different things and my veins suddenly felt like they were filled with ice. 

The DPS refer to themselves as the guardians of professional standards in the Met, which is enough to put you off dealing with them from the start. It's their job to wheedle out the corrupt officers, which I'm certainly all in favour of, as well as deal with any complaint from a member of the public and, laughingly, to reduce bureaucracy. Something that every department talks about and very few actually go anywhere near achieving.

“What did they want to know?” I asked, after the silence had stretched on between us and I'd let my mind wander away and then back again.

Sahra took another, smaller, bite of her sandwich and I waited for her to swallow. Professional Standards probably wouldn't take kindly to this conversation, if things had already been put on a formal footing. If they hadn't, there was still some leeway, but whatever we said now might come back to haunt us. 

“They wanted to know if we had any concerns about his conduct,” she said finally. “If we'd observed anything that was concerning at crime scenes or if we'd been aware of him not following proper procedure. I said I hadn't seen anything that gave me cause for concern,” she added, before I could ask. “He's never been anything but professional around me. And so that's what I told them. That's what David Carey told them too, at least while I was still in earshot.”

“Thanks,” I said, though I didn't really know why; he wasn't my responsibility, not like that. 

Sahra shrugged and started fiddling with the plastic sandwich wrapper. I could tell she wanted to say something more but I wasn't sure that I wanted to hear it. 

“You should talk to Lesley May,” she said, when the silence had stretched on too long to be comfortable. I almost startled, hearing her voice, so far gone down the rabbit hole of my own thoughts had I travelled. 

They were exactly the words I realised I didn't want to hear. That I'd been kidding myself I wouldn't need to hear. I think I thanked Sahra and she left, but I stayed there five minutes longer than I should have, just staring at the table in front of me and got a bollocking from my sergeant for being late for my troubles. 

I'd like to say it was worth it, but it really wasn't.

* * * * * 

Knowing that Thomas and Abigail were out for dinner, I arranged to meet Lesley for a pint in our old stomping ground, Soho. It had the benefit of being familiar and somewhere where I knew for sure Thomas and Abigail wouldn't be that night. And nor, hopefully, would anyone else we knew.

I'd dressed up a little in smart black jeans and a dark shirt, though I wasn't quite sure why and already had a pint waiting for her when she arrived, long blonde hair tied up in a smart ponytail, dark blue coat over black trousers and a bright red blouse. She'd dressed up too.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, sitting forward as she took the drink I offered her, evidently wearing a very good push-up bra and wanting to make sure I knew about it.

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“The Nightingale not satisfying enough?” she asked, smiling without a hint of humour touching her eyes. 

I was starting to regret ever involving myself in this but, in for a penny. “Anything more pressing you'd like to ask me?” I asked her, watching her face carefully for clues. 

She took a long drink of her beer and then licked her lips, gaze never moving from my face. Once that would have been enough. Once I would have thought we were in this together. 

“The Master of the Folly has some powerful friends,” she said, by which I took her to mean that Thomas and Lady Ty had come to some sort of _agreement._ “That's not how proper policing works.”

“Engaging with local stakeholders is exactly how proper policing works,” I countered. 

“Engaging with? Is that what you think is happening? Some secret little cubbyhole of the Met doing what it wants when it wants with no appreciable oversight? Letting these people do whatever they want because they're too dangerous to be contained? That's not policing.”

“It's keeping the Queen's Peace,” I replied. 

“Is it?” she asked, crossing and then uncrossing her legs, making sure one of her feet brushed along one of my legs, higher than it needed to go for any reasonable reason. “Do you even know what happened at Ettersberg?”

“Do you?” I asked. It was supposed to be a quick retort, but it came out more worried than I would have liked. She just smiled at me, cold and angry and hurt, though I couldn't fathom why this conversation would be hurting _her_. 

“You're a competent policeman, when you want to be. Don't let, whatever this is, don't let it ruin your career too.”

She stood up then, her drink half finished, and left before I could say anything, ask anything, think anything, except was this worth it? 

* * * * * *

I knew it was worth it the minute I stepped inside the restaurant on Kensington High Street and saw Thomas and Abigail smile at me. I knew then why I was doing this, why I'd dressed up, why anything was happening at all, those smiles, right there. 

I moved along toward them taking in the décor. Contemporary modern was the look it was going for, all fake industrialised with a big open ceiling snaked with metal pipework and lights held together by rusty chains and what looked like a frilly skirt. They were sat in the corner by a window, Abigail on a wooden bench and Thomas in a hard backed chair with a faded cushion at his back. 

Thomas rose to greet me and we did an awkward not sure how to greet each other in public dance which Abigail snorted at before I sat down on the bench next to her. 

“Everything okay?” I asked, even though I could see that it was. 

“'Course,” Abigail said. “Try this.” She pushed her plate towards me by which I could see they were still on their starters. “Crab and falafel sweet chilli doughnuts.”

Mouth already salivating I tried one and hummed my approval. Thomas meanwhile had flagged down a waiter and was asking if they could add on my order. Still chewing I quickly glanced over the menu and picked the south Indian fish curry. 

The waiter smiled. “So that's two south Indian fish curries and one halloumi and hummus brioche bun. Anything to drink?”

I've never been a big drinker at the best of times so I just stuck with water, as Thomas and Abigail both appeared to be doing. Thomas had once told me that doing magic whilst intoxicated was not advisable; I'd taken that to mean you'd probably end up setting yourself on fire, Thomas' penchant for understatement being what it was. 

“Abigail was just telling me about her history project,” Thomas said. There was a glint in his eyes so I waited patiently for the punchline. 

“I have to interview someone about a war they've been involved in,” Abigail said, “which could be really easy if someone wasn't making it so difficult.”

Thomas smiled. “I don't think anyone would believe me, do you?”

“You could pretend to be your own grandson or something,” Abigail suggested. 

“That's not nearly as much fun as it sounds,” Thomas replied. 

Abigail looked at me for support but failing to find it started telling us about the upcoming trip the school had organised to the Tower of London. Thomas was asking plenty of questions for the both of us, so I don't think they really noticed that I was mostly silent and just made general small talk as our meals arrived. 

The food was at least delicious, and Thomas insisted on paying, pointing out that I'd bought dinner the last time. We took the Tube back home, Abigail bumping into a school friend and chatting away ten to the dozen even though they'd be seeing each other the next day. 

“Long day?” Thomas asked me, more whispered into my skin really as we stood by the doors, ready to step out. Abigail was by this time on her mobile, texting with one hand and vaguely holding on to the handrail with the other. 

I mumbled some response and pretended I didn't see his frown. He kept shooting looks at me the whole way and twice made as if to take my hand, but decided against it. I pretended I didn't see that too. 

“Don't forget,” Thomas said, as Abigail headed up towards her room, “the Ofsted inspector will be coming tomorrow.”

Abigail's sigh echoed around the atrium. “I remember. Night!”

She disappeared before Thomas could give her any more instructions. 

“That time already?” I asked, referring to Ofsted. 

“Time certainly seems to be flying these days,” Thomas agreed. 

Ofsted, the Office for Standards in Education, Children's Services and Skills, had responsibility for inspecting the Folly's suitability as an educational establishment since for the purposes of Abigail's apprenticeship it had technically been designated a boarding school and the Folly obviously not being affiliated with the Independent Schools Council meant that it came under Ofsted's remit. 

It had taken some doing in the beginning and Abigail hadn't actually started boarding properly at the Folly until nine months ago when she was just turning 15 and the relationship with her dad had got what she called “a bit tense”. A normal inspection usually took three days and happened every three years but the Folly's first inspection had just taken a whole day and part of the evening and the unusual circumstances had meant it was scheduled to happen every year until Abigail turned 16; there was a lot of fudging about how much they were told, most of it centred on the Latin and not a lot on the magic. 

The inspection mainly involved talking to Abigail, seeing how meals were prepared (Molly had been decidedly tense the last time) and inspecting Thomas' marking. Since I knew what his usual approach to paperwork was I was surprised he was being so calm about it, given they only ever had half a day's notice that an inspector was coming and it had already been a hell of a week. 

It helped that Abigail was still enrolled at school and her headteacher had approved her flexi-schooling. Not that there had ever been a question that Abigail would be educated full time by Thomas, for one thing he couldn't do that and keep up with his day job and another was that he simply wasn't equipped to teach Abigail all the things she wanted to learn to get her GCSEs, then A-levels, then university degree. So she went to school Monday to Thursday lunchtime and the rest of the time was devoted to magic. 

I know Thomas had discussed the future briefly with her but I actually didn't know what conclusion they'd come to, if any. It took ten years for an apprentice to become fully trained, if Abigail wanted to apply to a university out of London, how was that going to work? 

I realised that Thomas had been calling my name and shook myself back into the here and now. What lay in store for Thomas' first apprentice was up to them to sort out. 

“Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I said I had to prepare some things for tomorrow. Are you sure you're not coming down with something?”

“I saw Lesley May earlier,” I replied. 

“Ah. It didn't go well I take it?”

I huffed a small laugh, staring anywhere but at Thomas. “Not exactly.”

Thomas put his hand on my arm and squeezed. “We'll be all right,” he said. I let him pull me close and kiss the side of my head. “I won't be long.”

I watched him walk into the library and then made my way to his room.

* * * * * 

I must have dozed off at some point because one minute I was curled up on my side alone and the next I was pressed close to Thomas' side, his breathing even enough that he must have been there for some time. The curtains weren't quite closed and the street light outside was bright enough for me to make out his profile. I tried to work out if I thought he looked younger than he had the first time we met, but he looked exactly the same to me. I didn't think I would get back to sleep again so I just watched him, wondering would my life have been that much different if Abigail hadn't been born with a gift for ghost hunting. 

I don't suppose it would. 

* * * * * 

I'd meant to talk to Thomas before I had to go to work about what had happened with Lady Ty, and fill him in on what Lesley had said, but just as Thomas was starting to wake me up by biting softly at my inner thigh my phone started to ring. He paused and I paused but the phone kept on ringing. 

Thomas sat up on his knees, the duvet falling half onto the floor and I groaned and flung my hand out, grabbing my phone. I don't usually keep it on in the Folly, magic and electronics not exactly being compatible, so I only had myself to blame when I saw it was my mum calling. 

I showed Thomas who pressed a kiss to my side and then disappeared into the bathroom. I don't think I was imagining the disappointed look on his face, or how interested other parts of him had been in waking me up properly. 

“Hi mum,” I said, trying to get into the right frame of mind for this conversation. 

“You're still coming at the weekend?” she asked me, not so much as a hello. It sounded like she was talking while hoovering. 

“Yes. Of course. Do you want me to bring anything?”

“No, no, your Auntie Valerie has got that under control. Should be spending more time with those children of hers. Did you hear what the youngest did? I wouldn't allow that sort of talk in my house.”

I hummed my agreement, having only the vaguest idea which Auntie Valerie she was talking about (probably the one who pinched my cheeks every time she saw me, even now) and an even vaguer idea of which of her seven children might have done something worthy of my mother's censure. 

“Are you bringing your young man?” 

I looked over at the bathroom door but the water running meant Thomas wouldn't be able to hear me; it was his way of making sure I knew I had privacy to talk to my mother. “No, he can't make it,” I lied. I actually had no idea if he was free or not but I did know I wasn't quite ready to introduce him to the hoards of relatives who'd be at my dad's birthday party. 

“We haven't seen him in a while,” she said, voice sharp and calculating. “You're still together?”

I wasn't sure whether I detected a hint of hope there or not. It's not that she doesn't like Thomas, she does, but the chances of him giving her grandchildren are zero and though there are plenty of ways for a couple to have children these days, I hadn't brought any of them up with Thomas. For one thing we'd not been doing this very long and well, I just hadn't brought it up, is all. 

“Yes, he's just busy,” I said. Mum tutted under her breath and before I decided how to interpret that she was reminding me not to be late and then hanging up. 

* * * * *

It was my turn to leave Thomas a note that morning, telling him that I was going to be pulling a double shift and that I'd see him after the weekend instead of waiting to have breakfast with him. It wasn't a lie, it just wasn't the whole truth. Which yes, I knew was going to come around and bite me, hard, which it did, but I did it anyway. Sometimes you just have to let yourself take the hits. 

* * * * * 

Thomas texted me later on that morning and since there was an honest to god emoji involved I knew Abigail had been peering over his shoulder as he sent it. Just thinking about it kept a smile on my face the whole day.

* * * * *

The Case Progression Unit isn't where real coppers go. That had always been my understanding and nearly two years stuck here hadn't exactly changed my mind. The idea that all real coppers were drowning under paperwork instead of getting out there and arresting the scum of the earth wasn't exactly wrong, but it wasn't exactly right either. Coppers interviewing suspects and then inputting that information into HOLMES where it can be assessed by people who might notice patterns or irregularities was a vital component of police work, just the same as actually being present on the streets to form relationships and generally make the general public feel free to go about their business, get drunk and vomit on a police officer's shoes. 

Suspects have to be logged in and a Borough Case Progression Record (Form 920A or B) has to be opened for every person arrested and taken to a police station. Our role at the CPU is to make sure that there's a consistent approach to such paperwork, like making sure all electronic forms are completed in the same font and have the Met's logo attached in the top right hand corner. 

It's supposed to stimulate an increase in arrests, though nobody I've asked (i.e my supervising sergeant who'd told me that being a cheeky bugger wasn't going to get me anywhere) has ever managed to explain to me how the two are linked. I will give them this though, making sure all the I's are dotted and all the T's are crossed early on does mean that when the Crown Prosecution Service get their hands on our files it does make it a lot easier for them to decide whether or not to waste their time prosecuting a case and then, hopefully, helping the victims and their families get some peace of mind as quickly as possible. 

So what I'm really saying is that it wasn't all bad, but it certainly wasn't good. So little things like Thomas and Abigail sending me text messages, or even occasionally, in Thomas' case, stopping by on the pretext of dropping off a case file (how he always managed to do that when no one else was in the office I've never been able to work out), was the sort of thing that made it okay that I wasn't investigating the type of crimes I wanted to. Or doing any investigating at all. 

And those times when I got to go out and visit a real crime scene, through Seawoll's influence as much as Thomas', which made me feel less awkward about the whole sleeping with a senior officer thing, could be the highlights of my month. Work wise, obviously.

I think the reason it didn't generate that much gossip when I was occasionally loaned out to the Folly or Belgravia MIT was a) because it really did only happen very rarely and b) because nobody else wanted to deal with the weird bollocks at the Falcon Unit and I was seen as an easy scapegoat in case anything went pear shaped. 

I reached over for another stack of files and started working my way through them. I'd really have a lot less time to think about all this if my job were more interesting. 

Though at least thinking about my lack of career progression was taking my mind off my dad's upcoming birthday party and the kind of conversations with my mum and everybody she'd ever met I was destined to have. Having to explain that my job involved paperwork and not really catching criminals hadn't exactly made much of an impression on anybody, least of all my mum, who couldn't see why I'd bothered to join the police force in the first place. 

Only on my very worst days do I ever consider agreeing with her. 

* * * * *

Dad's party went off mostly as I had expected. Lots of relatives I hadn't seen in ages, lots of people who might have been relatives but probably weren't, lots of people who'd heard there was a party and come along to see what food Mum had cooked, so not all that different from a normal weekend really. 

Dad was in his element, chatting with some people from a band he might start playing with. I didn't know how I felt about that. Pleased, I supposed, he was certainly looking more upbeat than he had the past few years and Mum seemed to think it was a positive thing, so as usual I took my lead from her. 

Mum was in her element too, holding court and getting me and the younger kids to fetch and carry and making sure no one could even think about running out of food or drink. I didn't mind really, it kept me busy and gave me a chance to take a break in the kitchen every now and again. 

I'd known before, and I knew even more now, that I should have invited Thomas. He says there are certain places that he can't go in the demi-monde, because of who he is. That at first it was beyond his control, a reputation borne from rumours of what he had done during the war, and now it's a more deliberate cultivation of a reputation that is helping keep the peace more than anything he's actually done. I think that's better, somehow, that he never asked for the responsibility but took it on anyway. I can relate in a way that doesn't always make for comfortable thinking. 

But this shouldn't be a place he can't come. This should never be a place he can't feel comfortable. This should never be a place that isn't comfortable to have him here. 

I had made up my mind to take one further loop around the room and then call Thomas when I caught sight of a familiar mop of blonde hair talking to my Dad. I nearly spilled my drink all over one of the neighbours I'd been stuck talking to, something to do with local crime statistics, and while I was apologising to them Lesley May had slipped out of the front door. 

“What did she want?” I asked my dad as casually as I could. 

“Dropping off a present,” Dad said, holding up a square wrapped in silver and purple wrapping paper that could only contain a record. “Said she'd see you at work. Nice girl.”

I think I hummed my agreement but calling Thomas was now the last thing on my mind. 

* * * * *

Mum and I were the last people standing, Dad having gone for a lie down a while ago, so we were quietly creeping around as we picked up plates and glasses, sorted out the presents into a pile – mine was one of the ones still lying unopened – and filled three rubbish bags that took me two trips to get rid of. 

When I'd come back upstairs to say goodbye to Mum she was wiping down the table and the place was looking spotless. 

“I'm just off then, Mum,” I said. 

“Are you happy?” she asked me stopping me in my tracks. I don't think she's ever asked me that before. To be honest, I'm not sure anybody ever has. 

“Yes,” I said, because by and large I was. I wasn't living the life I'd expected, but then how many of us could say we were? 

“Then bring Thomas around for dinner on Tuesday. Abigail's staying over with her friend Tameka so you don't have to worry about her.” She put her hand on my arm. “7pm sharp.”

I didn't bother trying to work out how she knew what Abigail's schedule was, I know better than to ask that sort of question, instead I nodded but I couldn't bring myself to say anything over the lump in my throat. She may as well have put an engaged notice in the paper. 

* * * * * 

On Monday morning, as I was starting to get ready for work, I got a call on my mobile from a number I recognised as Belgravia nick. Knowing that was always a recipe for disaster I answered straight away, only to find Sahra Guleed on the other end. 

“We've got a Falcon case. Seawoll wants you down here.”

“Why?”

“I didn't ask. Just get yourself down to the Royal College of Art.”

She hung up before I could tell her I was on my way; I guess that was a given. 

* * * * 

The Royal College of Art is the only completely postgrad university for art and design in the world. Founded in 1837 it used to be based over at Somerset House but expanded and moved to Kensington after the Great Exhibition, proving that Prince Albert was more than just the bloke that introduced trees indoors. 

When I arrived the usual press of police activity was in action. The police tape seemed to start at the Darwin Building, home of the architects, a 1960s block of concrete that somehow managed to get itself listed status, and then taper off down Kensington Gore. Named for Gore House, the home of William Wilberforce, he of the campaign to abolish the slave trade, and Count d'Orsay, renowned French man about town (not at the same time – though wouldn't that have been something?) it was demolished in favour of the Royal Albert Hall but its name lives on in the thoroughfare. 

Not that I thought anyone else would appreciate my history lesson as I checked in with the uniform at the tape and made my way down to where Thomas and Lesley were in conversation. Thomas sometimes indulges my rants about the destruction of perfectly good buildings in favour of brutalist monstrosities, but very few other people do. 

“Peter,” Lesley said, turning to me with a smile that looked as false as any I'd ever seen, “recovered from the weekend? I was just telling Inspector Nightingale that it was a shame he couldn't make it to your father's party.”

Thomas is very good at masking his hurt, he's had a lot more practice at it than I have, but I knew what to look for, that flash of pain in his eyes before his expression turned distant and professional. 

“Constable,” he said to me, before I could make any kind of response. He never uses my first name when we're on a case, I knew that, but it still felt like a slight. I'm sure that's what Lesley thought too, as she moved off to talk to Seawoll, a very definite spring in her step. I'd never thought of Lesley as petty before, but I guess the gloves were well and truly off now. I just wish I knew why. 

“I believe you know Sahra?” Thomas asked me, not waiting for me to answer or do anything other than stand there, wishing I could talk to Thomas and not Inspector Nightingale. “She's on temporary loan to the Folly, as are you, if you have no objections?”

“Of course I don't,” I said. I'm not sure what my voice sounded like but it did make Thomas look at me, quickly, and then smile, a sad smile I'd seen on plenty of exes just before they broke up with me. 

“Then let's get to work. The victim is 52 year old Andrew Sampson, lecturer at the RCA. He didn't turn up for a tutorial this morning and when his student got fed up of waiting for him she left and found him like this.” 

The body was lying face up in one of the disabled bays on the RCA side of the road. It was clearly staged, arms crossed over his stomach, knife still sticking out of his chest, knees and legs bent to one side. 

“What makes it a Falcon case?” I asked. 

Thomas motioned for one of the techs to pass him an evidence bag and tipped it to one side so I could see the victims damaged mobile phone and the golden sand that poured out from it. 

“Someone did magic near here,” Thomas said. “It may be unrelated to Dr Sampson's death of course, but I find that hard to believe.”

I nodded. I wouldn't fancy those odds either. 

“Sahra's interviewing his student. I thought we could take a look around his office, in case there's anything to indicate that he's a practitioner?”

I followed Thomas up to the first floor and down the corridor to Sampson's office. Forensics were already there, removing computers and dusting for fingerprints. Thomas moved over to the bookshelf which lined one whole wall of the office. 

“What am I looking for?”

“Anything that strikes you as odd,” Thomas replied, which wasn't the least helpful instruction I've ever been given at a crime scene, but it would probably make the list. Thomas must have sensed my scepticism because he turned towards me and smiled, his usual smile this time, which never failed to warm me. “It's one of those things you'll know when you see it. Just trust your instincts.”

Trusting my instincts had got me into some pretty terrible fixes, but it had got me out of them too, so I shrugged and moved towards the opposite end of the bookcase to Thomas, working my way back towards him. 

This part of the bookshelf seemed particularity neglected, no one had gone over these with a duster for quite some time. Except for one book, a biography of 18th century architects which was looking the worse for wear and had no discernible dust on it, unlike the rest of that shelf. I took out my gloves and carefully removed the book, it caught a little so I had to twist it and push at the bookmark lodged inside that was making it stick to the top of the shelf in order to get it out. When I did I could see that the bookmark wasn't a bookmark, but a flyer written in what looked to me like Greek. 

“Is this something?” I asked. Thomas came over and took the leaflet from my hand, our fingers brushing. I dared to looked at him and he smiled and bumped our shoulders together. 

“I think it's an advert for a nazareth,” he said. He did a quick, small, werelight underneath the paper and before our eyes the print began to shift and change into English. 

“Useful,” Sahra said from behind us. I didn't jump, because I'm a professional and pay attention to my surroundings, but – okay, I jumped. 

“This one appears to be being held tomorrow,” Thomas said, trying to hold back a smile. “It would pay to see if he's a regular or not.” He looked between me and Sahra, slowly calculating. 

“Is this one of those things you can't go to?” I asked. Sahra tilted her head curiously. 

“I haven't been to one for quite some time, so it wouldn't be prudent to start now,” Thomas said. “Being the only official wizard left can be more of a hindrance than a help in the demi-monde sometimes,” he explained to Sahra. “Being a policeman even more so.” 

“What do they do at these nazareths?” she asked. 

“Same as any, really, except the items on sale are usually magical in nature.”

“Why don't you shut them down?” 

“I'd rather they stayed where I can find them,” Thomas replied. “They're mostly harmless and police themselves. I can't recall any serious trouble occurring for quite some time.”

Sahra seemed to accept this at face value. “The student, Jessica Hart, is definitely holding something back. I think she and Dr Sampson were a lot closer than she's letting on.”

“Is there any evidence to suggest she killed him?”

“Some blood on her sleeves, but that could just have been from leaning over the body. Lesley's taking her back to the station so we can get her clothing and a videotaped statement.”

“I'll need you both to get statements from the other people on the course and his colleagues. I'll see about the autopsy and if there's any more evidence of magical involvement. You'll keep me constantly updated,” he added. 

“Will you remember to have your phone on?” I asked, smiling slightly. It was something of an ongoing joke as Abigail and I dragged him kicking and screaming into the 21st century. 

“I'll check it periodically,” Thomas confirmed, “constable.” 

“I'll just go get started then?” Sahra asked, disappearing out of the office without expecting an answer. 

“I'm sorry I didn't invite you to the party,” I said quickly, still aware that technicians were milling about the room, and not wanting to lean in any closer to Thomas than I already was. 

“We'll talk later,” Thomas said, but he didn't seem upset or resigned or any of the other things I was expecting, so I decided to believe that everything was going to be okay. Besides, I had a job to do and I wasn't about to start worrying about my personal life when actual policing needed to be done. That way only madness lay. 

* * * * * 

It turned out that Dr Sampson was on sabbatical, finishing off his latest book, but had agreed to supervise three PhD students. This was good for us because it meant less people to interview but bad for us because it meant having to travel all over London to track them down. We ended up exploring the wonders of Kensington with the son of a Norwegian diplomat and then talking to the daughter of an accountant in a bedsit in Stoke Newington where I wouldn't have been surprised if the mould had climbed down off the ceiling and offered us a cup of tea. 

After we were done Sahra directed me to a halal sandwich shop on the high street and we sat eating our lunch in the car, going over our notes. The weather had taken a decided turn for the frosty so we had the heating blasting on full as we ate, trying to remember what our fingers felt like. 

Nothing seemed to jump out at us, besides the fact that the relationship between Sampson and his student Jessica was an open secret. They both seemed to have liked him and considered themselves very fortunate that he'd agreed to take them on. They were less keen on Jessica but had both decided that consenting adults could do what they liked as long as she didn't get preferential treatment over resources, which they didn't think had been a problem. 

“You and Inspector Nightingale,” Sahra asked, scrunching up the sandwich wrapper and putting it in the little plastic bag we were putting rubbish in, “am I not mentioning it?”

“It's not a secret,” I said. I didn't mention that it wasn't a secret because pretty much everyone had assumed we had started sleeping together more than a year before we actually had. “Does it bother you?”

Sahra shrugged. “Not as long as it doesn't get in the way of securing a conviction.” She looked over at me. “You asking me to lie about it would have bothered me.”

“We wouldn't,” I said. We hadn't had as many conversations about our relationship as we probably should have, but we'd both been on absolutely the same page about that – we would never let our relationship get in the way of protecting members of the public and maintaining order. 

“And yet he picked you for this.”

“He picked you too,” I pointed out. Sahra raised an eyebrow. “He just prefers to work with people who already know about magic so he doesn't have to start from scratch, that's all. He wouldn't have done it without Seawoll's approval.”

“I know,” she replied. “I checked with Seawoll.” 

I smiled. I was going to like working with Sahra. 

* * * * *

When we got back to Belgravia nick it was to find that Jessica Hart, Dr Sampson's student and lover, had confessed to murdering him. 

“She what?” Sahra had asked David Carey, who just looked as bewildered as the rest of us. 

“Lesley May's in with her now.”

All three of us were standing in a little group in the middle of the office where we could talk without being overhead and also keep an eye on the intense conversation Thomas and Seawoll appeared to be having on the other side of the room. 

“What do you think that's about?” Sahra asked me. 

“No idea,” I replied, still trying to process Jessica's confession. 

As a rule there are three types of people who confess to murder straight off. The first is the person found with the body who falls over themselves to explain what happened and why they did it, be it through genuine remorse or otherwise. Then you have the gang members who realise they've been caught red handed and figure setting up a name for themselves as a killer is going to get them better treatment inside (it doesn't). 

And then you had the people who confessed because they've seen too many crime procedurals and think that the confession is the end of the story. Far from it. When someone confesses to a crime, especially one as serious as murder, we don't in fact open up bottles of champagne, pat ourselves on the back for a job well done and go home to our loved ones. Instead we keep on investigating, keep on questioning suspects and keep on following the evidence, wherever it might take us. 

As it turned out this one was going to take me and Sahra to a nazareth near Bermondsey Market the next day. 

“There might be some weird bollocks involved,” Seawoll told us, as we stood in his office. “So don't be a hero.”

I thought Sahra and I did a commendable job of keeping a straight face as he continued talking, filling us in on exactly what we would not, under absolutely any circumstances, be doing. When he was finished Thomas, clearly saying only what had been prearranged between himself and Seawoll and not whatever he actually wanted to say, gave us a few more details and tips on how to behave. 

“The preliminary autopsy report's on Lesley's desk,” Seawoll said when Thomas was finished. “Peter can sit there while he updates HOLMES. Sahra, if you'd stay behind for a moment.”

Thomas steered me out of the room under Seawoll's glare. 

“Everything okay?” I asked in a whisper. 

“Fine. His bark's always been worse than his bite,” Thomas replied. “I have a meeting with the Commissioner. Will you be coming to the Folly tonight?”

“I'd like to,” I replied. 

Thomas' expression shifted, just a little. “You're always welcome, Peter. I'll see you later.”

I let myself think about him for two minutes while I waited for Lesley's computer to come back to life, and then put all thoughts of the Folly out of my mind. 

* * * * *

When it seemed obvious that I wasn't going to be leaving until well after 6pm I sent Thomas a quick text, not expecting to get a response for a while. When we'd first met and I'd realised just how out of step with the modern world he was I was slightly incredulous that he didn't own a mobile phone, but Abigail had been even more baffled, since it was her main form of communication. Her reaction to no wireless in the Folly had been priceless until we got around to sorting out the Tech Cave. I almost think it would have put her off her apprenticeship altogether, except, you know, _magic._

It never ceased to amaze me though how focused Thomas could be when he had decided that something was worth learning, or someone was worth listening to. He still favoured paper over electronics but he was getting pretty good at using his phone now – he'd never survive Abigail if he didn't – and he was just about getting the hang of email. Forensics and DNA was still a weird blank spot, mind you. 

Thomas' reply came about half an hour later – no emoji this time. Apparently he was still in his meeting with the Commissioner, which did make me worry a little, but he said Molly would be keeping some food warm for me, which made something in my belly uncurl and set me smiling for the final half an hour of data processing as I finished up all I could for the evening. 

* * * * *

When I arrived at the Folly all was quiet, the kind of soft quiet that meant only Molly was in residence. I don't know how I always know that, it's just something I've picked up in my visits, an awareness of the Folly as an almost living presence. It's not something I have any intention of mentioning to Thomas. Or anybody else.

I peered into the dining room but not seeing any food there I headed down to the kitchen. Molly was busy baking some sort of cake but paused long enough to sort me out a plate of what looked like cottage pie. She was getting a tray ready for me when I said I was happy to just eat there. Molly gave me a strange look and then handed over some cutlery and left me to it.

* * * * *

I'd just finished seconds, much to Molly's appreciation, when Thomas walked in, looking tired but gratifyingly pleased to see me. 

“Peter,” he said, but got no further because I stood up and pulled him into a kiss, ignoring Molly's soft laughter behind us. Thomas leaned into the kiss and put his arms around me, drawing me closer. 

“Have you eaten?” I asked, pulling back a little. 

Thomas blinked. “Um, yes, Lady Ty provided some food.”

That was almost enough to put me off my game. Almost. 

“Well, that'll make a fascinating conversation starter later, but for now...” I kissed Thomas again, pressing close towards him, his own interest in proceedings hot and heavy near my thigh. 

“ _Peter,”_ he said, but he was smiling and didn't protest as I took his hand and lead him up to his bedroom. 

Abigail was at her swimming club and I knew Molly would steer her away from interrupting us, so we had the kind of privacy which made the Folly one of my favourite places. 

Once inside Thomas' room I wasted no time in getting his clothes off him, pulling at his jacket and waistcoat and cursing the man's inability to just wear jeans and a t-shirt. Except of course I had developed a disturbing affection for Thomas' suits and just seeing them hanging up in his wardrobe had been enough to make me want to find him and take him apart, on more than one occasion. 

That was another something I wasn't ever planning on mentioning to anyone.

“You too,” Thomas panted in my ear, pulling at my shirt and biting down on my neck as it dropped to the floor. I moaned some response, too desperate to get him where I wanted him to waste time on trying to find words. 

Instead I pushed him towards the bed and he landed as gracefully as he did everything, helping me remove his shoes and trousers and then insisting on helping me remove the rest of my clothes. 

Gloriously naked I straddled Thomas and tried to lean over and open the drawer of his bedside table where I knew he kept the lube and condoms. It was just out of my reach until Thomas whispered something under his breath and the drawer opened just enough for me to get what I wanted out of it. 

“That's cheating,” I said, gasping at the last moment as Thomas pressed kisses to my chest and rubbed a finger over first one then another of my nipples. 

“Are you complaining?” he asked, with a smile that I loved to tease out of him. 

“Absolutely not,” I grinned back, and then handed the lube to Thomas. Thomas frowned a little. 

“Are you sure?”

I kissed him for an answer and then, because I knew he would insist on it, “yes, I want this.”

And I did, so much. We hadn't done more than blow jobs and hand jobs up until now and I wanted so badly to have Thomas spread out below me. 

Thomas didn't take long to get on board with the plan, scissoring me open and having me panting curses in his ear because he insisted on preparing me long past the moment I thought I needed it. (God, I loved this man). 

Finally, after what seemed far too long a wait, with the condom on Thomas and my thighs trembling from the effort, I lowered myself down on him, turned on as much by the feel of him inside me as the look on his face. I had no idea what expression I was making but when Thomas started to move to meet me, inpatient and eager, I knew I was making noises I'd never made before and when Thomas started repeating my name like a prayer, or a precious new formae, I knew I wouldn't be able to last long. 

“Do you have any idea...?” Thomas started to say, before moving up so he could kiss me, the angle hitting my prostate again and again until I couldn't do anything but hold on, pressing myself into him, onto him, needing to feel his skin against mine.

It wasn't enough though, so close and yet just out of reach and then he was flipping us, suddenly above me and fucking me, hard, my legs moving to twist around him, wanting him to keep up that pace, my neck arching as he licked and sucked and then bit down hard, hard enough to leave a bruise and I was coming, his name on my lips as the world seemed to shatter all around me. Boneless, barely able to catch my breath, I kept my hands around his neck as he pushed inside of me once, twice, and then he was coming, his whole body tensing and then pressing into me and I pulled him even closer, my legs finally giving way and sliding down his waist. 

He moved off me and we lay there, panting, one of his legs over mine and his hand on my chest. I moved my hand and put it over his, feeling my heart beating so fast I thought it might burst. Thomas squeezed my hand and twisted a little to press a breathless kiss to my shoulder. We both sounded like we'd run a marathon and were dripping with sweat. Neither of us made any sort of move to leave though. 

“I should have invited you to dad's birthday party,” I said to the ceiling, once my breathing had calmed down a little. Because if there's one thing I know how to do, it's kill a mood. 

“Peter, you don't need to...”

I twisted around so I could look him in the face. “I hated being there without you.”

Thomas kissed me, a soft press of lips. “I don't mind,” he started to say, changing tack as he saw my expression. “Perhaps I mind a little. I do know I would rather have not found out about it from Lesley May, of all people.”

“I know, I'm sorry. On the plus side, Mum's invited us both round for dinner tomorrow night.”

Thomas was doing a very poor job of not showing just how pleased this made him. So I kissed him, telling him everything I couldn't manage to make into words. 

“I'm sorry,” I said again. 

“Oh Peter,” Thomas said, running his fingers along my face and jaw. He smiled as I pressed a kiss into his hand. “It took me long enough to believe that I could have this, with you. I'm not going anywhere.”

And there it was, what I'd really been worried about. That he'd think that all of this, me and my family, and Abigail and gossiping colleagues (if I knew about the bets being taken on when we were first involved I was sure he did as well), wasn't worth the inevitable bumps in the road. Because I might not have had a proper relationship in a few years, but it was nothing compared to his dry spell. 

“Anything worth doing is worth doing right,” he said, pulling me close. “And anyone worth fighting for is worth any amount of effort.”

“See, it's things like this that are going to be the death of me,” I said.

Thomas laughed. “I sincerely hope not. Now, we should get some sleep. You and Sahra will need your wits about you tomorrow.”

I pretended to grumble a little but I was happy for him to get us into a more comfortable position and let his soft breathing lull me into sleep. We'd worry about the mess in the morning.

* * * * * 

“So this is how the other half's other half lives,” Sahra said, taking in the atrium and keeping a wary eye on Molly, who was standing a little to the side. 

“I've stayed in worse,” I agreed. Thomas, Abigail and I had just finished breakfast when Sahra arrived, ready for our trip to the nazareth. She had on her usual black trousers and sensible shoes with a dark purple hijab with an intricately designed flowered pattern on it. I'd gone for black jeans and the dark blue cashmere jumper Thomas had bought me for Christmas which I kept at the Folly because Molly was the only person I trusted to wash it properly. 

Thomas liked it too, judging by the way he rubbed his fingers along my arm as he gave us our final instructions. Until he realised what he was doing and removed his hand quickly with a clearing of his throat. 

“So, I will be spending most of the day here which means...”

“Any problems, call you on the landline,” I said. 

“And the market is a neutral place so if we feel anything unusual we get out straight away and do not engage,” Sahra added. 

“Clearly I have nothing to worry about,” Thomas said. 

“They'll be fine,” Abigail said. “They can just hit any bad guys over the head with their truncheons.”

“We don't carry...” I realised Abigail was joking at the last moment and decided it would be better to quit while I was ahead. 

“You'll...”

“Call if we need you, yes,” I said, interrupting Thomas before things got out of hand. “See you later.”

I really wanted to kiss him goodbye, and I could tell by the twitch of his lips that he did too, but we manfully behaved ourselves. 

* * * * * 

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but the market was the same as markets all over the capital, loud and noisy with lots of stalls and people bartering over goods of a questionable provenance. I thought it was mostly books until we saw someone lean over and whisper something to one of the stallholders and a black bag was pulled out from under the table and money exchanged hands. 

Sahra and I both twitched at this, but we kept on walking; that wasn't why we there. 

We had printed off some photos of Dr Sampson and started handing them out, asking if anyone had seen him. Like most Londoners in the same situation they ignored us and refused to even look at the photos. We didn't want to identify ourselves as police just yet so we reconvened at the little stall selling cups of tea to plan our next move and have a sit down in the little plastic chairs that looked like they'd once belonged in a doctor's waiting room. 

“We won't get anywhere if no one will even look at the photo,” Sahra pointed out. 

“If they don't trust us as strangers, what's to say Sampson ever made it inside either?” I suggested. 

“Perhaps what you need is someone who belongs here.”

I was standing up to greet Lady Ty before I was aware of moving. Sahra, I noticed, had done the same, though looked more confused about it.

“Peter Grant, who's your friend?”

“DC Sahra Guleed, this is Lady Ty, she's...” I paused, not quite sure how to finished the introduction. 

“Lady Ty is fine,” she said, smiling at me in a way I didn't much care for. 

“Pleased to meet you,” Sahra said, warily polite, and held out her hand. Lady Ty's smile grew as she shook it. 

“Give me the photo,” she said to me. 

I handed one over and she disappeared into the crowd with it, her heels clicking against the wooden floor as people moved out of her way. 

“That'll be one of those people Nightingale warned us not to take any food from, would it?” Sahra asked. 

“'Fraid so,” I replied. 

“So, who is she then?”

I turned to Sahra, trying to work out if she really wanted to know. But of course she did, she was a copper. “Would you believe me if I said she was the goddess of the River Tyburn?”

“I've seen Inspector Nightingale dispatch vampires, river goddesses seem almost tame in comparison.”

“Vampires?” I asked. “What...?”

I didn't get the chance to ask Sahra about that (Thomas had certainly never mentioned vampires to me) because at that point Lady Ty came back followed by a short stumpy man with something about his facial features that reminded me of Molly. 

“This is Alistair. He has something to tell you. Don't you?” 

I could feel the finger touch of magic on my skin and shivered. Sahra furrowed her brow, she could obviously feel something different too but couldn't recognise it for what it was. 

“Thank you for your help,” I politely told Lady Ty, “but I think it might be better if we conducted this interview without magical assistance.”

“Do you think that's what the Nightingale would want?”

“Yes,” I replied, no hesitation. 

“A word?” 

She took my arm and pulled me away from where Sahra and Alistair were standing. I could see Sahra tracking my movements, ready to intervene if she needed to. 

“This isn't your world, Peter. What are you doing here?”

“I'm the police,” I said. “I don't need your permission.”

“Do you think the Nightingale can protect you? He can't even come here.”

“Doesn't come here,” I replied. “Not can't. And judging by the way everyone started to pack up as soon as you showed your face, I'm thinking you don't come here often for the same reason.”

She pursed her lips but didn't turn around to see if what I was saying was actually true. She must have known that her presence would have an electrifying effect. What I couldn't understand was why she had helped us, unless this was part of the agreement she and Thomas had worked out; I couldn't help but feel it would have been nice if he'd mentioned it. 

“Just find your killer,” she said, turning away and glaring at Alistair as she did so. Whoever he was he was going to be in some serious trouble if he didn't answer our questions. 

“Peter?” Sahra asked. “ _Peter?”_

“I'm just wondering what it would be like having a conversation with her when I know what's going on.”

“Well if you've quite finished, Alistair here tells me that Dr Sampson's been coming here every week for the past three months.”

That caught my attention. “Has he been visiting the same stall holder?”

Alistair shrugged. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”

Sahra and I looked at each other and each released a long breath. I like to think we played a silent game of rock, paper, scissors that I just happened to lose, but really I don't think there was any chance of Sahra giving up any money. 

Once Alistair was in possession of £40 of my well earned wages he suddenly remembered that Dr Sampson had been looking for some very specific information, all of which either related to the Folly, or the history of Ettersberg. 

“Did he find what he wanted?”

“The last time, last week, he seemed pretty happy with himself.”

“Do you know who he bought from that week?” Sahra asked. 

Alistair looked around the stalls behind him. “Nah, she's not here today. And she won't be seen if she doesn't want to be. And no, I'm not giving you her name. Won't help anyway. Not like she's registered anywhere the filth can find her.” 

At this point we had no leverage to get him to talk, and he knew it. 

“Anything else?” I asked, suspecting rightly that we had come to the end of his knowledge. He just shook his head and we let him go back to his stall. 

“I don't think we're going to find anything useful here,” Sahra said. 

I nodded distractedly, I was more worried about how I was going to tell Thomas about this, and worse, Seawoll. 

* * * * * 

We had decided that the best thing to do was head back to Belgravia nick and let Seawoll know what we'd discovered. Sahra and I were both very aware that there was now a real conflict of interest which certainly wouldn't go unnoticed by an alert Department of Professional Standards; I'd have to remove myself from the investigation. 

“Have you read the confession?” Sahra suddenly asked me. We were sat in her car in the car park, finishing writing up our notes before we headed upstairs. 

“This morning. Why?”

“Did you think it was...”

“Rehearsed?” I suggested, because that had been the word Thomas had used as he'd read it over my shoulder in the Tech Cave. It wasn't unusual for confessions to make unnatural reading once a lawyer was involved, but this had seemed particularly so.

“Hmm,” Sahra agreed. 

I turned to look at her. “What's bothering you?”

Sahra started to say something and then stopped. I followed her gaze to find Lesley May standing at the front entrance. She tapped her watch with her finger and then went inside. 

“I think we've just been summoned to the headteacher's office,” Sahra said. 

It felt more like the lion's den. 

* * * * *

By lunchtime I was back at the CPU, told under no circumstances to contact Thomas – Seawoll would do that. The prevailing theory, as related by Lesley, was that Jessica Hart and Andrew Sampson had had an argument in his office and he had stormed off. Jessica, grabbing the ceremonial knife he'd won at a Royal Institute of British Architects awards dinner had stabbed him with it in the street when he'd told her he was moving to a new job in New York and wouldn't be taking her along with him. 

Sampson's trips to the nazareth were put down to an interest in the Second World War – a lot of books of the era had been found in his house – as well a general interest in the occult. This was based on a single book of love spells found stuffed down the side of a sofa – which seemed to me far more likely to have been the work of Jessica than anything. 

The point was, I didn't believe a word of it. 

* * * * * 

I spent most of the afternoon organising files for a court case and periodically checking my mobile. Finally, at 3.30pm I had a text from Sahra which told me to meet her outside the unisex toilets on the third floor.

Feeling like I was auditioning for James Bond I made sure no one was paying any particular attention to my movements and got there just as Sahra was finishing checking the toilets for eavesdroppers. 

“What's going on?” I asked. 

“Seawoll asked me to go through Sampson's phone records,” she said. “I'd hardly got started when Lesley said she needed to double check something and she'd finish off for me.”

“Okay?” 

“But I'd already made note of one number that seemed to be coming up a lot. Lesley May's number.”

It was one of those moments where nothing feels quite real, but then everything you think you know shifts and slots back into place and you know that what you're being told is not only true, but that it makes a perfect, disturbing, kind of sense. 

“She asked Sampson to research the Folly, didn't she?”

“That would be my guess.” Sahra checked her phone. “Seawoll's in a meeting for another half hour. I'm going to talk to Stephanopoulos. You're coming with me.”

It wasn't a question but I nodded my agreement anyway.

Regardless of what had happened to Sampson, the fact that Lesley hadn't divulged a prior relationship with him was a definite red flag. And then there was the more troubling fact that she had been the one to take Jessica Hart's confession, alone at first, as they'd travelled towards the nick together, and then only after that had Jessica repeated it in the presence of a solicitor. 

I had a feeling that this day was only going to get worse. 

* ** * * *

I've always found Stephanopoulos to be as straight talking as they come, and she didn't disappoint this time. I won't repeat what she said when Sahra presented the evidence, which now seemed to indicate that not only had Lesley May kept information from the team, but that she had also removed information from HOLMES. 

“I want you two to re-interview Jessica Hart before she's moved. I'll send Lesley on an errand to get her out of the way. You are not to say a word to anyone about this. And that includes Inspector Nightingale, Peter, understand?”

“Absolutely,” I replied, standing up a little straighter. 

“Why is it so hard to tell whether or not you're taking the piss?” she asked. 

I didn't really have an answer for that, so wisely decided to keep my own counsel. 

* * * * *

We'd only been in the interview room ten minutes when Jessica Hart's confession began to unravel in a mess of snot covered tissues and runny mascara. Though she and Sampson had had a fight, and she had had a knife in her hand when she confronted him in the street (she said she couldn't recall actually picking it up), it was like the knife moved all by itself to stab Sampson, and kept on moving long after she'd let go of it. Lesley May though had convinced her that she was just imagining things, that she had stabbed him and her brain was refusing to let her process it and instead was making it seem that some other force had hurt him and that she'd wanted him dead and therefore it was all her fault and she deserved to go to prison for murder.

Sahra and I looked at each other and then at Jessica's solicitor, who unsurprisingly looked like he didn't think he had much hope of getting “the floating dagger defence” past a jury. 

Lesley would have known it was magic though, and she'd said nothing. 

* * * * *

Sahra and I were moved to a conference room on the second floor and told to stay put. It felt an awful lot like we were being punished until Stephanopoulos and Thomas came in, each carrying a tray of drinks and biscuits. 

“Are you all right?” Thomas asked us both, eyes resting on me. 

“We're fine,” I said. “What's gong on?”

“Lesley May appears to have gone AWOL,” Thomas explained. Sahra and I turned to look at each other and then over at Seawoll as he came barrelling into the room. 

“You and your bloody weird bollocks,” he snapped at Thomas. “She was a perfectly good copper till she met you.”

Thomas looked more pissed off than I'd ever seen him before but sat down abruptly without saying a word. Stephenopolous looked over at them both and sighed, like a headmistress fed up of dealing with unruly children. 

“Blaming each other isn't going to help. Sir,” she added, as Seawoll turned a half-hearted glare on her. 

“It'll make me feel better though,” Seawoll said, which was probably the best apology Thomas was going to get. “Is this it?”

“She's on her way,” Stephanopoulos said. 

I hesitated a moment but then decided that I didn't care what anybody thought about it and moved to sit next to Thomas. Sahra took the seat on the other side of me and I passed around tea things to the pair of them. Slowly Thomas unfurled himself enough to smile his thanks. 

“I hope you don't mind,” he said in a low voice to me, so quiet I had to strain to hear. “But I took the liberty of calling your mother and telling her we wouldn't be able to make dinner tonight.”

I blinked. I'd completely forgotten all about it. “Oh, ugh, thanks. Was she okay?”

“I stressed that it was purely for work reasons. I'm not sure she believed me though.”

“Yeah,” I murmured. I was going to have a lot of explaining to do on that front later. 

But I couldn't worry about that now, as a dark skinned black woman in a tweed suit and close cropped brown hair strode in and closed the door behind her. 

“My name is Deana Amir, I'm with the Department of Professional Standards. I've already spoken to several of you in the past few weeks. I'm afraid I owe you all an apology, particularly you Inspector Nightingale. It was however necessary to give the impression that we were investigating you and the Falcon Unit.”

Seawoll glared at her. “Don't you fucking tell me...”

“Constable Lesley May has been the subject of our investigation since the Covent Garden riots.”

There was a collective intake of breath as we were all transported back to that night. The Lord of Misrule, as Thomas had called him, had seized an opportunity to take a human hostage and create as much mayhem as possible. He'd even had one of his followers shoot Thomas to get him out of the way, though thankfully Thomas had managed to defend himself enough that the bullet had only grazed his arm. 

I would have been there too, if Thomas hadn't ordered me to get Abigail to safety. She'd been out ghost hunting again, before Thomas had officially taken her on as his apprentice and had very nearly become a hostage herself. 

I'd only seen the trouble on the outskirts of the riots and that had been bad enough. I knew everyone else in the room had been in the thick of it. 

“Why wasn't I told of this?” Seawoll asked. He looked even angrier at her than he had at Thomas, which was certainly saying something.

“We needed to be sure you weren't involved,” Amir said, to Seawoll's obvious annoyance. 

“Investigated for what, exactly?” Thomas asked. 

There was a knock at the door and Amir went to open it, revealing a smug looking Lady Ty. I chanced a look at Thomas and though he hid it well, I could tell he was definitely shocked. 

“Sorry I'm late, Deana.”

“I was just briefing everyone. Perhaps it would be best if you explained why you first contacted us.”

Lady Ty sat down, clearly enjoying having all the attention on her. I wanted badly to reach out and touch Thomas but I daren't give her any more ammunition – her sweeping gaze on entrance had noted with a sneer our seating arrangements. 

“After the Convent Garden riots, when it became clear that the Nightingale intended to take on an apprentice, I became concerned. I thought that the fact that she wasn't a white Oxbridge graduate was a deliberate attempt to curry favour with my mother.”

Thomas made an aborted attempt to interrupt.

“Yes, I realise I was mistaken,” Ty continued. “However, the Folly as it was was a decaying institution, even you must see that. The changes you have made are not enough. And well, you're hardly qualified to look after a young girl, as I have made clear on more than one occasion.”

“Are you planning on getting to the point any time soon?” Thomas asked, voice definitely falling on the clipped military side of things. 

“I was concerned for Abigail's welfare. Lesley May approached me after one of my meetings with the girl and told me she had grave concerns about the running of the Folly. Concerns I naturally shared.”

“Did see know you were a river goddess when she contacted you?” Sahra asked. I winced but Ty just smiled. 

“I imagine if she had she would have been equally disgusted with me. It became clear very quickly that Lesley wasn't interested in reforming the Folly but in destroying it, along with all of the magical interference she believed was responsible for the riots.”

“And you chose to inform the Department of Professional Standards instead of me?” Thomas asked. 

“What would you have done if I had?”

“We'll never know.” 

The tension in the room was ratcheting up and I was hard pressed to think of another time I'd felt this uncomfortable with my clothes on.

“What does this have to do with where we are now?” Stephanopoulos asked. 

“There was a group, at Oxford, practitioners of magic. They had a particular smell about them. Lesley May smelt the same.”

“Are you suggesting that Lesley May is a practitioner?” Thomas asked, clearly incredulous. 

“No. But I do think she turned to a practitioner to help her take down the Folly. Deana?”

“When Lady Ty came to us with her concerns,” Amir began to say, “we began to monitor Constable May's financials and communications. She spent a lot of time in communication with Andrew Sampson, which didn't raise any red flags until his murder.”

“Andrew Sampson was one of the Oxford cohort,” Ty said. 

“Are you telling me Andrew Sampson was involved in the Covent Garden riots?” Seawoll asked.

“No, we've already confirmed he was out of the country then,” Amir said. 

“But he was presumably in communication with the practitioners that were at the riots,” Thomas said. “Jessica Hart said that they argued because he was leaving the country again, perhaps they wanted him to take part in whatever their next step is, and he refused?”

“David Carey's checking his phone records again but he's coming up against a lot of unregistered mobiles. Can't you use magic to find these people?” Seawoll asked. 

“It doesn't work like that,” Thomas said. “There are...”

Thomas never got to finish his sentence as David Carey burst into the room. 

“Sir, there's been a Falcon attack. At Acland Burghley School.” 

Thomas was on his feet before I was, but only just. Their next move was to go after Abigail. 

* * * * * 

When we got to the school smoke was rising up from the front and the gates were lying broken in the middle of the street. There was an acrid smell in the air too like a bomb had gone off. Which might have actually saved a few lives. Schools, particularly schools in the capital, have pretty robust evacuation procedures in place in case of terrorist attacks – I remember vividly sitting in a history class not that far from where I was now standing listening to a debate about the IRA and what to do if you saw a suspicious package on the Tube – so it was no great surprise that most of the pupils were being lead in an orderly fashion directly away from where we were. 

All of them except Abigail. I could see her kneeling on the pavement, her head bowed down, hair shooting out in all directions, the soft shimmer around her indicating she'd put up a defensive shield. I know she hadn't been learning that spell for very long so I had no idea how long she could hold it up against the practitioner who was hitting against it with a metal pipe, which I realised on second look had been fashioned using the railings around the entrance. 

Sahra and I had travelled in the Jag with Thomas who now strode straight towards the practitioner, like an avenging angel, shouting something at him that I couldn't hear. Seawoll and Stephanopoulos were not that far behind, jumping out of their car and moving towards us. 

“Does he know what he's bloody doing?” Seawoll asked me but I didn't answer. Truth was, I'd never had the opportunity to see Thomas in a fight, I had no idea what was about to happen. I'd only heard the stories about his past, just like the rest of the officers watching this unfold. 

Whatever Seawoll took away from my silence I don't know, but he was suddenly shouting orders to the uniforms that had shown up and Stephanopoulos said she was taking some officers to check the school for stragglers. By unspoken agreement Sahra and I stayed where we were, ready to jump in and help if Thomas needed us. 

The practitioner with the metal pipe in his hand swung again at Abigail, and I could see her bracing for the impact, screwing up her eyes and mouthing words I couldn't hear but which I presumed was keeping the shield around her in place. But this time instead of the pipe making contact there was a burst of power, so strong I felt it in my bones, and the pipe melted in a shower of sparks. Next to me Sahra removed her baton and extended it, then slowly started to creep forward. 

Then another practitioner stepped out into the road, smart suit, shiny shoes that glinted in the sun, and a face I couldn't quite make out. It was like every time I tried my eyes slid away from him. He didn't say anything, just used a spell to rip the door off a nearby parked car and throw it straight at Thomas. 

Sahra ducked behind one car and I moved to shelter by the Jag but Thomas didn't so much as hesitate, didn't pause, didn't stop walking towards Abigail, just raised his hand and the car door tore down the middle and dropped in two equally shorn pieces to the ground. 

Somewhere behind me I heard a uniform swear but I didn't take my eyes off of Thomas. 

“You can't win this war,” the man with no face said. 

“I'll settle for the battle,” Thomas replied. And then he raised his walking stick high above his head, and, in a lightening fast move I could barely follow, slammed it into the ground 

I've never been in an earthquake, the UK's paltry excuses for them not withstanding, but this is what I thought it must be like, the sudden shifting of the world beneath your feet, the slow rumble as the earth reminds you that you're nothing compared to Mother Nature. Only this was Thomas and magic, causing the road before him to curl up like a giant fist and reach out its fingers for the practitioners who dared to attack his apprentice and disturb the Queen's Peace. 

The one who'd been trying to hit Abigail fell first, tripped up by the road moving up towards him like a crashing wave and Sahra didn't hesitate to run up to him, use her baton to keep him down and handcuff him. He didn't resist which at least showed some good sense on his part. 

The other man though didn't fall, just rode the wave of the pavement as if he'd been doing it all his life, and started throwing magic at Thomas. Thomas fought back and what was probably only seconds but felt like minutes seemed to pass in an almost silent show of skill. Until Thomas abruptly stopped. 

“Well fought, Nightingale,” the man said, and then he took an honest to god bow, like this was all just some sort of medieval fantasy game. 

I didn't understand why Thomas had stopped, but he didn't take another step forward, halted at the point between where the road was churned up and where it lay straight. He didn't say anything either, which I could tell just from the practitioner's body language was really pissing him off, and then he turned and flounced off, running down one of the side streets. 

“No one is to go after him,” Thomas said loudly, directing himself to the officers behind me, and let's face it, mostly me. 

“Sir?” Sahra asked. 

“Demon traps,” Thomas explained to her, pointing to the road. “This whole area's been booby trapped.”

I hadn't been there when Thomas had dealt with the demon trap last year but judging by Sahra's wary expression, she had. 

Then Thomas turned towards Abigail, who was still keeping up the shield around her, though I could see it was taking a lot out of her. 

“Abigail. Abigail! You can stop now. It's all right.” Thomas got down on his knees and pressed two fingers to the shield. Abigail looked up and suddenly the shield was gone and she was moving forward and wrapping her arms around his neck. Startled, he pulled her into a hug and held her close. “You're all right. You're all right. You did exactly the right thing.”

I let out the breath I'd been holding, feeling shaky and started to move towards them, when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Lesley May. 

* * * * * 

There were a lot of questions to answer with DPS after this day, not least of which is why I decided to go after Lesley on my own. I think if you need that answering there's something very wrong with your moral compass, but I only saved that muttering for late at night when I was lying in bed next to Thomas. And it's not as if it were true either, I told Thomas and Sahra what I was doing, and I radioed it in to Seawoll. The fact that they all told me to wait for backup was besides the point. 

I don't know why Lesley lingered that day. Maybe it was just to see what would happen and pick the side that best suited her. When I followed her out of the school grounds and further down the street I imagined she'd turn to me and tell me that this had all been part of her plan, to infiltrate this group of practitioners and stop them from hurting anyone. I suppose I wanted her to be the shining star everyone always said she was. 

Wishes and horses, and all that. 

Our confrontation came, such as it was, in a dingy side street with rubbish from the neighbouring fast food restaurants piled up in blue and black bin bags that hadn't been properly sealed and the stench of rotten eggs. I tried to think of something, anything to say that was vaguely original and to the point, but only the obvious shouted out at me. 

“Why are you doing this?”

“Me? You're the one in bed with one of them.”

“Thomas is a policeman.”

“Is he? Does that make it easier for you to sleep at night? Do you think he'd have handcuffed Daniel if Sahra hadn't'? Do you think he would have stopped at ripping up a road? These _things_ have all this power and they use it however they feel like.”

“What happened to you?” I asked. I'd known Lesley for years and I'd never heard her talking like this. I knew she hated the demi-monde, but this was reaching a whole new level. 

“Me? What happened to me?” Lesley started to laugh then, an ugly deep throated sound that would give me nightmares for weeks, having me waking up in a sweat more times than I'd like to admit, and certainly more times than I've ever admitted to Thomas. And her face seemed to change too starting to twist in time with the laugh. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before, though I've had cause to see weirder since. “Do you know what it's like, to have someone else inside your head? To not know if your thoughts are their thoughts?”

“The riots...” I said, slowly remembering that Thomas had said that a form of mind control had been used back then. As far as I knew though everyone else who'd been there seemed to be fine, even the hostage they'd taken at the Royal Opera House hadn't reported any latent side effects. 

“It was long before the riot,” she said. “The riot was just the end of it. Do you remember, when that man died at Covent Garden and we had to guard the crime scene? When Abigail turned up, saying she'd had a row with her dad and could she stay at your mums? And you went off to phone your mum and she wandered off and met a ghost? And I stayed where I was and met a wizard.”

“Lesley...”

“I told him to get lost. And then again, and again, and each time I met him I told him to get lost. And then each time he turned up he did some magic, but I'd met Nightingale by then, I knew about wizards and the Folly. I knew what was right and wrong. But that doesn't matter, does it? Not when you have magic.”

I've been around enough magic to recognise when it's about to happen but I still couldn't quite believe my eyes when Lesley opened up her hand and revealed a werelight, bobbing gently in her palm. 

“Look what they did to me.”

“Lesley, I – Thomas can help. It's not too late, you can...” 

Lesley threw the werelight at me, but it fizzled out before it got anywhere near me. I got my baton ready and moved forwards, only for her to push me and kick at me. We grappled for a moment, the baton falling to the floor and she knocked me down and straddled me, face a mask of fury that made my heart ache. 

I twisted around, elbowing her in the stomach and trying to reach for my baton. 

At which point she tasered me in the back. 

* * * * * 

When I woke up the first thing I realised was that someone was holding my hand. It was nice, familiar, I didn't want them to move away, but I must have shifted my fingers because suddenly the hand was gone and a dark presence was looming over me. 

“Peter? Are you awake?” 

I opened my eyes and blinked at the light. “Thomas?” I tried to ask, but it came out more as a whine than an actual word. 

“Shh, don't try to talk.” He got some ice chips from the bedside table and slowly fed me a couple. Even that much was exhausting. I felt like I'd had a wall fall on me, which apparently wasn't all that far off. Not content with tasering me it seems Lesley's practitioner friend had come looking for her and decided to try and finish me off. Luckily for me neither of them stuck around long enough to see if that was true. 

I was just able to stay awake long enough for Thomas to tell me that much, before darkness welcomed me like an old friend. 

* * * * * *

Mum came at one point, which I only know because of the mountains of food she left behind for me, most of which seemed to disappear thanks to Thomas, Abigail, Sahra and Dr Walid, the Folly's medical expert. 

The DPS tried to take a statement but apparently I had Stephanopoulos to thank for them agreeing to come back another time. Thomas wasn't so lucky and when he wasn't visiting me or looking after Abigail he was answering questions from them. It was all a “bloody fucking shit storm” as Seawoll told me, on the one and only time he came to the hospital. And I think that was only so he could rant about Lesley's career going down in flames, all of which he blamed on Thomas and me. 

“Is Abigail all right?” I asked, once my vocal cords remembered how to work again. 

“She's fine,” Thomas assured me. “Insisting on being taught more defensive spells actually. Well, offensive really but she's trying to phrase it so as I won't notice.” He smiled at me, softly proud of his apprentice who'd been knocked down but refused to stay there. “I tried to tell her that it was too dangerous for me to keep her on,” he added, which surprised me enough that I sat up and nearly pulled out a few stitches. 

“You wouldn't?” 

“Calm down,” he told me, though he just pulled up the bedsheets around me. “She swore on your life that she'd just keep training on her own. Or god forbid ask Cecelia for help.”

“Cecelia?” I asked, eyebrow raised. 

“She's been quite helpful,” Thomas said. “What was it you called it? Stakeholder engagement? I had to make a lot of bargains with a lot of people to allow Abigail to become my apprentice. I'd shut myself away too long and then when it came to it, I think I jumped in with both feet before I really knew what I was getting myself into, at least as far as the outside world was concerned. I should have picked better battles.”

I reached out with my free arm, the other already tangled up in an IV, and put my hand over his. “You were just protecting Abigail and the Folly. There's nothing wrong with that.”

“Well, community policing is what the Folly should have been doing for a long time now. I can only hope the demi-monde will forgive past mistakes.” 

I could see that he was a little embarrassed, both for himself and past wizards, so I said nothing, just squeezed his hand. 

“Lesley?” I asked at last, because I needed to know. 

“No sign of her or the Faceless Man, I'm afraid.”

“The who?”

Thomas sighed. “Abigail's name for him. It rather seems to have stuck with the rest of the investigation team.”

“Good a name as any,” I replied. It conjured up a lot of nightmarish visions but it was also a lot snappier than murdering bastard. 

“I should let you get some rest,” Thomas said, though he made no move to leave. 

“There is something you could do for me,” I said. It's something I'd been thinking about for nearly two years now, something I hadn't been sure I wanted. Something I still wasn't sure about. But Thomas couldn't protect Abigail on his own. And Abigail couldn't protect Thomas on her own. 

“Teach me magic.”

Thomas' eyes widened a little, but I got the feeling that was more for show than anything; he had to have known it had been on my mind. 

“The Commissioner makes those decisions,” he said. I just hummed noncommittally and closed my eyes; I really did need to rest. 

I'd bring it up again in the morning. It might not have been a yes, but it hadn't been a no either.


End file.
